


To the Ends of the Earth (Would You Follow Me)

by livia_1291



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 400 year night, Anko Family - Freeform, Brotherly Love, DenNor, Fluffy, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hetalia, How Do I Tag, Love, Vikings!, Whale Brothers, a lot of water symbolism, and circa 1000 for the second chapter, aph, aph denmark - Freeform, aph iceland, aph norway - Freeform, circa 1500s, finally it's not angst!, platonic, political union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16835950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livia_1291/pseuds/livia_1291
Summary: Two people Norway would follow to the ends of the Earth.(DenNor and completely platonic and brotherly NorIce.)





	1. Chapter 1

Sindre doesn’t quite know what to make of this little outing. The air is cold against his skin, and he can smell salt and earth - they must be near the sea, he thinks. He cannot tell exactly where they are. All he sees around him are trees and rocks, hulking and jagged like miniature mountains. This territory is unfamiliar. This man at his side is less so.

Norway had always seen Denmark as a threat, as something dangerous and wild and untameable. They had often met on the battlefield, in storms of blood and iron, and had often parted bruised, aching, and wounded. Sometimes their meetings were social events, around a fire where they shared a beer and a pelt over their laps, but did not speak. Neither of them had many things to say to the other, outside of murmured thanks and requests for more beer, or perhaps bandages for a particularly deep wound.

Magnus is still sitting tall and proud hundreds of years after their time as Vikings had ended, the gold of his hair glinting in flashes under the dappled light. He is still a force to be reckoned with - he negotiates smoothly, fights fiercely, moves like the god Thor in battle, all lightning and metal. He should be terrifying, but he is not. Not to Sindre.

_When Norway was told that he would join Denmark in a union, he had not responded favorably. He had taken the news in silence, and then disappeared into the forest for three days, only returning because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was his job, his obligation, his duty. His people needed him to do this, whether he wanted to or not. He was part of something much bigger than himself, something that required him to put his own feelings aside and do what needed to be done. That fact, however, did not keep him from glaring daggers at his advisors upon being put on a boat bound for Copenhagen._

_Usually, he was at peace on the sea. He moved as fluidly on water as he did on land, crying out orders, beating the wardrums, heaving the oars with skilled, calloused hands. He enjoyed the freedom of skimming over the waves, felt like he was made of wind and lightning. This time, he spent the voyage sick. The waves were no longer his friends. They reached for him, tossing the boat like a matchstick, calling him into the endless darkness of the North Sea. He felt when they crossed out of his territory, and into Denmark’s - there was a pang in his chest, and he hung over the side of the boat and was sick, sick, sick._

_The voyage took a week. Norway had never been so grateful to get off a boat - he teetered weakly onto foreign soil, unsteady and dizzy as a newborn reindeer. The solid earth spun beneath him, and he worried that he might collapse. Before he could, he felt a strong arm around his waist, steadying him._ Denmark.

_Magnus greeted Sindre with a dazzling smile. He pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, offered his arm, and willingly gave him everything he had - the first drink from his cup, the choicest meat, the finest furs, the whole of his country and all of its riches. He had shown only kindness to him, even when Sindre tried to push him away. He resolved to be difficult, so difficult that they would give up and send him back home. He hissed at Magnus, spat swears in his own language, locked himself in his chambers for hours, and pined for home._

_The Dane was not shaken. Every evening, he would bring food up to Sindre’s room. He offered him more blankets when the wind howled through the cracks of the castle, gave him new furs to wear when they went to speak with other powers. Sindre hated it. It was like they were the only two people on the earth - everyone else had forgotten him._

_Magnus was not discouraged when Norway refused to eat, or spitefully slept under one thin sheet. Instead, he was patient. In the confines of their home, he would speak to him slowly and clearly in hopes that Sindre would understand, asking him how his day was, telling him about a bird he saw, wondering over how the Norwegian would look when he was happy._

_After months of trying to win his trust, Sindre began to soften, becoming less stubborn, less miserable, though he still could not bring himself to smile. Not so far away from his home. As wrong as it seemed, Sindre had started to refer to the palace as such, but it certainly didn’t_ feel _like home yet. He wondered if it ever would._

_Every evening thereafter, the palace grew warmer. He joined Magnus for dinner in his grand hall, and attempted, brokenly, to speak his language. They were able to talk with each other briefly, sharing books and stories and using gestures when words failed them. Despite his lingering homesickness, he found that he enjoyed the Dane’s company. Even if he felt out of place at his side, it was much better than being alone. Slowly, but surely, life became bearable again._

The rocking of the horse beneath him as they trot down a hill jolts Norway from his thoughts. It reminds him of the familiar, comfortable swaying of a boat beneath his feet, and he concentrates on that, letting it lull him. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that he is somewhere else, perhaps on a wooden skiff in his own fjords, and not in the middle of nowhere in a strange, foreign land. _Not foreign. This land belongs to him, too._

“Where are we going?” He asks, and the Danish words are strange and broken on his tongue.

“Do you trust me?” Magnus asks simply, looking over his shoulder to him. Sindre nods wordlessly.

Magnus stops his horse, and Sindre stops his in turn, looking to his partner with a silent question on his face. Denmark slips out of the saddle, landing lightly on the gravel, and offers his hand to Sindre, who takes it, dismounting with equal grace. Tethering their horses to the low branch of a sturdy ash tree, Magnus glances over his shoulder to his companion, one of those signature grins on his face.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs. Norway wrinkles his pert nose, and gives him a look. They have become very good at communicating with just facial expressions - sometimes words cannot accurately express the depth of emotion couring through their wild minds. After a moment, he gives in and shuts his eyes, feeling Magnus clasp his smaller hand. The walk they take is brief and silent, punctuated only with Denmark instructing him to step down, or to watch out for a root protruding from the earth.

Sindre can hear the ocean clearly now, crashing against sand, and he almost stumbles when Magnus stops walking, only to be steadied by a strong arm around his willowy waist.

“Here. Open your eyes,” he tells him, and Sindre does, inhaling a little more sharply than he intends to.

He is staring into nothingness. The horizon is two colors - the cool grey of the clouds, and the slightly deeper color of the sea. It seems as if the whole earth drops off, and they are the only two people left, staring into an infinite ocean that stretches on and on into the universe.

“The northernmost reach of my peninsula,” Denmark informs him, and Sindre nods quietly, holding up his hand to silence him for a moment. He steps away, letting go of his hand to approach the place where sand recedes into water. It is cloudy - he cannot see anything beyond churning iron grey, though he knows that on a good day, when the sky was clear and the sun illuminates the water, he would be able to see the jagged coast of Sweden.

Without thinking, he kicks off his boots, leaving them on the sand as he steps into the sea. It laps meekly at his feet, and he shivers a little at the chill, but keeps walking, until it is at his calves. The fabric of his pants clings to his skin, soaked with seafoam, but he does not care. Absently, he wonders what would happen if he kept walking. Would he drown? Would the ocean would swallow him up and spit him back out in Valhalla, Hall of Warriors?

Instead, he stops, and turns his head to the sky, letting the wind tousle his silvery blond hair and chafe at his slightly parted lips. He drinks it in, fills his lungs, and for a brief moment, he feels infinite, as far-reaching as the ocean seems to be.

Magnus joins him after a moment, and Sindre opens his heather-grey eyes, deep and mysterious as the North Sea, and smiles, the first wide, genuine smile he has given him since he arrived.

Denmark melts. Sindre is otherworldly - he always has been, like a piece of the aurora fallen from the sky and taken human form. He is wild, proud, unearthly - everything Magnus could have wished for and more.

“Thank you. For taking me here,” Norway whispers, and for once, Magnus is unable to speak, so he just nods, hesitantly taking his hand again. Sindre lets him, slowly intertwining their fingers as the Dane skims his thumb over his knuckles.

“I saw that you seemed unhappy, back at the palace. They told me you wouldn’t like it. That you don’t like being cooped up. I don’t either,” he tells him, and he speaks slowly, clearly. Sindre realizes that he can understand his Danish now - Magnus is unendingly patient with his learning process.

“I appreciate your consideration for my wellbeing,” Sindre responds, and there is truth behind his words. He angles himself to face Magnus, meeting his eyes. There is a long moment of silence between them, regarding each other in the stillness of the sea. Something flickers between them, small and bright and new. It fills them both with warmth, like a piece of the sun.

“Can I…?” Magnus asks, and there is a flicker of a smile on Sindre’s lips.

“Ja,” he whispers in response, voice almost lost against the waves lapping at their thighs. Magnus cups his face in his calloused hands, marvelling at the soft plumpness of Norway’s cheeks, before leaning down to meet him in a gentle, timid kiss, and all at once, Sindre is _home._

When they break apart, Magnus drops his hands from his face, taking both of Sindre’s hands into his own and drawing them to his chest, where the Norwegian can feel his heart beating like a drum beneath his fingertips.

“I will...follow you. Wherever you need me. To the ends of the earth,” Magnus promises him, and Sindre realizes that the words were in his own tongue, shaky and accented, but still clear as a winter night.

“ _Tak_ ,” Norway whispers, and pulls him down to kiss him again.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Brother!”_

Norway was a light sleeper to begin with. The slightest bump in the night would have him bolting upright, slender fingers curling around a knife as he prepared for the unbridled chaos of a raid, or to listen to the howl of a winter storm threatening to break down his door. Now, raids and seasonal storms were the least of his nightly problems.

During the day, Emil was a bright, happy child. He was a quick learner, curious about the world around him. Often, he questioned Norway as the elder went through his daily life, asking “why this?” or “how do you do that?” At first, it had been rather annoying to be pestered with so many questions, but as time went on, he minded less and less. The noisy, seemingly tireless little boy todded after his brother like a shadow; sitting on his lap during meetings, or falling asleep on his shoulder around the fire in the evening. When finally did grow tired of walking, he held his arms out to be carried on his brother’s hip, and Norway always obliged.

Nights were a different story. Since the day Sindre had brought Emil back to Norway with him, the boy had been plagued by night terrors. They had an unspoken routine now. When the moon was high in her arc, Iceland would wake in a sweat, shivering and whimpering, and Norway would hold him and wipe his tears and tenderly tuck him back in when he settled down. Then they would repeat it the next night, and the night after that.

“Nightmare?” he asked drowsily, settling onto the pallet of furs beside the tiny boy, who immediately crawled into his lap. Automatically, Sindre wrapped his arms around him, cradling the smaller figure against his shoulder and rocking him slowly, soothingly.

_Hush, little one, I’m here. I will not let anyone hurt you._

Emil sniffled, large lilac eyes reflecting the moonlight streaming in through their window. “Yes,” he whispered, and Sindre smoothed his pale blond hair back from his forehead, slipping a finger under his chin to make the boy meet his eyes.

“There is no need to be afraid,” he promised, and Emil blinked owlishly, before hiding his face in his chest again, curling his plump fingers into the worn fabric his shirt.

“I know,” he whispered, and Sindre took a breath, heart lurching in his chest. For some reason or another, his normal assurances didn’t seem to be working - usually being held was enough to lull him back to sleep. Guilt weighed on him, like stones lashed to his shoulders. Perhaps he had done the wrong thing, taking Emil with him. Maybe he would have been better off on his own blustery island, sleeping on a bed of fire and ice, with the aurora for his blanket.

“How can I ease your pain?” Norway asked him, and Iceland shook his head against his shoulder, holding tighter to him.

“Will you tell me a story?” he asked weakly, and Sindre stiffened slightly. A story? He had never been very good at those. While his men sat around the fire and retold stories of their conquests and scars and families, he remained quiet and listened, deep in his own thoughts. When asked of his own tales, he would simply smile and shake his head, taking a long sip of mead and choosing to remain a mystery. These men did not need to know of his past, of his present, of his origins or family or every battle he had every seen. He preferred to keep his own tales close to his chest - it was safer that way.

Despite his aversion to telling stories, he found that he could not refuse the boy. He knew Iceland would forget them within a day or so anyway.

“Yes,” he murmured, and Emil smiled, pleased that he would not be alone in the silence of the night.

“Not so long ago, there was a man who conquered earth and sea. He was a fierce warrior, and his name alone struck fear into the hearts of men. He was sure that he would spend his whole life as a warrior, proud and strong and alone.”

“Warriors don’t have to be alone,” Emil mumbled, into his shoulder, and Sindre couldn’t help but smile. _Out of the mouths of babes._

“We know that, but our warrior doesn’t. Not yet. Do you want to hear the rest?”

Iceland nodded sleepily, slowly beginning to settle back into slumber.

“He traveled the world in search of great treasures. He took what he wanted - gold and silver and land, but he was not satisfied.”

He could feel the smaller boy’s breath evening out, and he lowered his voice, until it was barely a whisper. At this point, Emil wasn’t listening to his words, but rather the soft rumble of his voice in his chest.

“The gods heard his prayers, and they gave the warrior a different sort of treasure, one made of fire and ice instead of gold and silver. A noisy, sleepless sort of treasure that stayed up far too late and kept the warrior company when he didn’t realize he needed it.”

 _Finally_ , Emil was asleep. Flickering auroric eyes fell shut for a moment, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. Peace, at last. Sindre dipped his head, pressing an affectionate kiss to silver-blond locks and laying the boy back down. Iceland barely stirred at the movement, too deep in sleep to notice. _A treasure_ , he thought, momentarily overwhelmed, _that made me realize that I really am part of something bigger._

As he stood, gazing to the child across the room, his heart flooded with a surge of protectiveness, like a wave overtaking a ship. He had never expected that life would take him in this direction - he certainly didn’t _feel_ ready to raise a child - but here he was. He understood it all now, the selflessness, the sacrifices, the _unconditional_ love that his men had told tales of when they became fathers. Before Emil, he would have been irritated if he had been woken up at this hour for anything less than a full-blown battle. Now, he hardly minded.

 _I would go to the ends of the earth to make you happy_ , he thought, and Iceland shifted beneath his pelts, finally content in the moon-drenched silence of the Norwegian night.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The next chapter will be posted within the week," I said, like a liar. Sorry about that! I scrapped it and rewrote it several times before I was okay with it. 
> 
> Thanks to Bianca for beta'ing for me with helpful comments like "IMAGEY" and "METAPOUR", and to Rory for the inspiration!

**Author's Note:**

> I think my muse sleeps for most of the year, wakes up, conks me over the head with inspiration, and goes back to sleep. This was written in a frenzy on the same day I wrote “Quadrille.”
> 
> Things you should know about this ficlet:
> 
> \- “Tak” is Danish for thanks.  
> \- Bianca, bless her heart, edited it for me.  
> \- I started out with the title and went from there. You listen to ONE Lord Huron song...  
> \- The doc I wrote this on is called "he's pining for the fjords."  
> \- Shout out to Benny, who unwittingly gave me a lot of inspiration for this!
> 
> Thank you all for putting up with my bullshit, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I treasure your feedback. <3  
> The next chapter, about Norway and Iceland, will be posted before the week is up. (Probably.)


End file.
